A lot has been written about Hunter S. Thompson since he decided to blow his brains out a few weeks ago. Many were surprised to hear about by his execution-style exit, but I wasn’t surprised at all. Violence was a way of life for the gonzo journalist. So, it was only fitting for him to splatter his gray matter all over the kitchen as a final “fuck you” to a world full of bullshit. And if Thompson stood for anything, it was against bullshit.

It was a little strange and synchronistic when I read the news today oh boy, as I had just recently finished reading Hell’s Angels and The Rum Diary. I’d always known of Thompson, reading many of his articles and, of course, watching pretty boy Depp try to imitate him, but I hadn’t really read his novels. I’d always meant to get around to it, but never found the time. I finally did in early February, and I remember feeling truly alive while immersed in his work, more alive than ever. Ironically, he was obviously preparing for death. Yet his spirit was still there in the work. Few writers can make their words jump off a page and grab you by the throat. Hunter achieved this almost effortlessly. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was a bona-fide asshole, not some wannabe asshole like every other aspiring wordsmith. He was the real deal. Most writers, in fact 99.9% of all writers, are pretentious boobs who want to impress you with their wordplay or knowledge rather than be honest about anything. They’re wannabe assholes, penning fluff piece after fluff piece that makes no goddamned sense whatsoever, is in fact meaningless, but looks and sounds important and thereby impresses the insecure editors and hopelessly moronic readers. You can feel these so-called writers patting themselves on the back for being so fucking witty and clever. The urge to beat the shit out of these pseudo-intellectuals is strong. In fact, I hope a few respond to this diatribe, so I can smash their fucking faces in. That would certainly put a smile on my face.

I’m sure Hunter felt the same way about these sycophants. And though they all praise him now that he’s put a bullet in his head, none of them probably really liked him, or even respected his gifts. So, I’m here to cut through the phony eulogies and tell it like it is. Hunter, wherever you are (and I sure hope it’s in Hell as you worked too goddamned hard not to be invited to the party), I just wanted to say fuck you, you selfish fucking bastard for killing yourself. You were an asshole in life, and now you’re an asshole in death. Thanks for the fear and loathing, and showing us all what it meant to be a real man of the pen. Crack open another bottle of Chivas, and save me a seat at the table. If I’m half the writer you were, I’ll be meeting you in hell soon. And say hello to Poe, Hemingway, Bukowski, Kerouac, Burroughs, London, and all the other drunken fucks who’ve faced the blank page with courage and cowardice. We should all be so goddamned talented, self-destructive, and beautiful. God knows we need it now more than ever.